


lots of soup & a quarantined time lord

by notjodieyet



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: A bit of drama, Fluff, Sickfic, alright folks!, blame the tardis lounge, but it's the master so it's to be expected, canon? i don't know her, don't look for canon in my work, donna is on a soup mission, per usual, sickfic on crack, soft, the ONLY thing i'm good at is writing people talking, the master is so! unbelievably! soft!, this is only barely coherent, time for lily's crack comedy, whatever crackheadery is in here, wrote some of it on a plane! so blame that for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22783978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjodieyet/pseuds/notjodieyet
Summary: soft sickfic of my tardis fam (martha, donna, ten, rose, the master) except on crack.donna makes soup. rose and martha take over. the master is an overdramatic bastard. the doctor is dying (except not actually)come read my chaos! it'll be fun
Relationships: Martha Jones/Donna Noble, Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler, Tenth Doctor/The Master (Simm), Tenth Doctor/The Master (Simm)/Rose Tyler, The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 73





	lots of soup & a quarantined time lord

The Doctor’d been coughing and sneezing and being generally and annoyingly sick all day, and Martha had quarantined him to his room, alone.

“I don’t actually _get_ sick,” he’d tried to protest, but it didn’t work, mostly because the other Time Lord in the room had an intimate understanding of how badly the Doctor was lying, which was how he ended up flipping between three alien news channels, bored out of his skull, reading one of Rose’s beloved trashy romance novels and hating it.

The Doctor hadn’t truly understood the seperation and yearning of quarantine before now. He wanted to speak to a person. He wanted Rose’s breathy kisses and the Master’s needy ones; he wanted Martha’s sweet assurances; he wanted Donna’s sharp criticisms.

He hadn’t seen an actual person’s face in forty-five minutes.

 _Come hereeeee_ , he texted Donna Noble, who was the most likely to mock him but also the most likely to actually show up. _And bring soup,_ he added.

_ur not allowed visitors while u have the plague, she replied. also im beating martha and rose at catan rn_

_It’s the flu I’m fine. Pleaseeeeee_

_martha said_

_Rebel against her. Overthrow your overbearing government._

_fine, be there in 10_

This was, the Doctor discovered, a blatant lie. It was nearly _fifteen_ minutes before Donna showed up, holding a steaming bowl of soup. The Doctor’s stomach decided it was too upset to eat any, and he asked Donna to set it down on the bedside table so he could maybe eat it later.

“Feeling okay?”

“I feel awful.” The Doctor slid deeper under his blankets, wallowing in his minimal misery.

“Eat your soup.”

“Okayyyyy.”

“I’m going to go back out. I’ll be back when Catan is over.”

The Doctor sulked. “I’m _dying_ , Donna. You would abandon me while I lie on my deathbed?”

“You have the flu, Doctor. See you later.”

* * *

Donna returned to the living room shortly after she left, but didn’t stay there long.

“Why are you going to the kitchen?” Martha asked, getting up from her spot at the board game table to follow her. “Donna.”

“Getting our resident invalid some soup.”

“You just got some soup for him. And he’s _fine_ , it’s the flu, I only put him on bed rest so he’d stop sniffling all over the TARDIS.”

Donna shot Martha a concerningly evil grin and said, “I know. And I’m getting him some more soup.”

“He doesn’t need any more soup.”

Donna sighed. “I _know_ he doesn’t need any more soup, Martha, now play along, won’t you?”

“Along with what?” Martha said, feeling very sure that she was missing some sort of joke. To be fair, Donna was being very oblique about things, and she couldn’t very well expect Martha to read her _mind._

She crouched down and started rummaging about in the cabinet as Martha looked on.

“Along with what?”

“Do you think split pea is nice? I’ve always been fond of split pea.”  
“Along with what, Donna?”

She pulled out a greenish can of soup. “Split pea it is, then. Get out a pot and turn on the stove, will you?”

“ _Along with what, Donna?_ ”

Donna cracked open the can of soup and Martha, not having anything better to do, went over and swiveled the knob for the stove. “I’ll get the pot, then,” said Donna, and she got the pot.  
Martha decided there was probably no point in saying _along with what_ again, and she switched tactics. “Any reason you’re making soup again?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To amuse myself.” Donna poured the soup into the pot and grinned at Martha again, sending electric shivers down her spine.

She ignored the flutters, and said, “You’re making soup to amuse yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Because…?”

“I’m being a jerk to the Doctor.”

“Oh, that actually is amusing,” Martha allowed. “How is making soup for him being a jerk, though?”

“It’s not. Not the first few times.”

Things were beginning to click together in Martha’s head. “You’re going to flood him with soup.”

“Yes, darling.”

 _Darling?_ “Genius,” said Martha, who thought it was a funny idea if a bit of a waste of soup, but also somehow couldn’t bring herself to say no to Donna. Especially not after darling.

And she was finding herself warming to the idea as the seconds ticked by, anyway. In fact, it was a fantastic idea. She liked nothing more than watching Donna mess with the Doctor, didn’t she?

Yes. She did.

This was a wonderful idea.

* * *

The Master definitely wasn’t frightened.

Concerned, sure, but for a _reason_. Reasonably concerned. If the Doctor was sick, it stood to reason that the Master could catch whatever he had. And the Master didn’t really feel like getting sick right now.

It had nothing to do with the irrational fear that if the Master laid eyes on the sickly Doctor he would somehow get even sicker and fall into a coma right before the Master’s eyes. It had nothing to do with the fact that the Master couldn’t bear the thought of the Doctor weakened and pale. It had nothing to do with the fact that seeing the Doctor reclined and coughing like a Victorian maiden would utterly and completely take the Master apart, and not in a fun sexy way.

It had nothing to do with the fact that the Master was an utter and absolute coward.

He just didn’t feel like going into the Doctor’s room, right now. He would, eventually. In an hour — two hours — four, maybe? Was four too much for somebody you professed your love to every night? Could he even say _I love you_ and mean it, if he couldn’t sit by the Doctor’s bedside while he was sick?

Back _before_ , the Master’s long internal ramblings would annoy the Doctor, and he would interrupt them with kisses or questions abotu quantum phsysics or arguments about who left the window open or whose turn it was to shower first.

Now the Doctor’s telepathy was rusty at best, and there were things like guilt and years and years of history to contend with. If things weren’t simple then, things were so far from simple now. The Master couldn’t remember what _simple_ felt like anymore.

“Hey. Dude.”

The Master looked up and saw Rose Tyler, who was probably wondering why he was huddled against a wall like it was the only scrap of land around. It was a fair thing to wonder about. “What?”

“What’re you doing? The Doctor wants to see you.”

The Master squinted at her. “What is he now, calling people in to say good-bye? You know he’ll be alright.”

“He’s not going to die, Master.”

“I know.” He did know, somewhere deep inside his chest, but _somewhere deep inside his chest_ wasn’t communicating with the parts of him that made decisions, like, for instance, his brain. “I don’t want to see him.”

Rose sat down next to him and pulled him close. He didn’t want to be close, but the warmth was comforting, at least. “You always want to see him.”

“Not now, I don’t.”

“I _know_ you do.”

The Master refused to meet her eyes. It was true. He always wanted to see the Doctor, no matter what, and he did now more than ever. His want to see the Doctor was a graph with a very intense upward trend, hurtling towards the ceiling with an ever-increasing necessity. Even now, just the _thought_ of seeing the Doctor was setting his hearts to beating with a crazed tempo.

“You do,” said Rose. She could always read him too well; it was like the bare minimum of things they had in common gave her an opening into his private thoughts.

“I do,” admitted the Master. “I just…. I don’t want to —” Want to what? How could he explain all the convoluted, awful thoughts chasing each other around the Master’s head?

Rose hugged him. “He wants to see you. You should go say hello.”

The Master got up to go see him, and say hello, and hopefully not fall apart.

* * *

By the seventh bowl of soup, the Doctor was beginning to suspect something was amiss.

Donna smiled at him, pat his non-gelled hair (it felt very wrong, but he didn’t want to get up to gel it), and said, “Feel better.”

“I don’t.”

“Made you some soup.”

“About that —” started the Doctor, but Donna had already swept out of the room, leaving behind yet another bowl of soup. “Okay,” he said timidly to himself, too tired and sick and intimidated to challenge her.

* * *

The TARDIS began to rock, and Rose stumbled against the wall. “Hey, dude, could we _not_ right now?”

It ignored her, and there was a settled tumble of the floor.

“What’s going on out there?” shouted Martha from the other room.

“I don’t know.” Rose creaked open the TARDIS door and squinted at the blue and green landscape beyond. “Okay. Alien planet, I think. Wanna have a look around?”

Martha came into the bridge and said, “Without him? I feel like that’s a bad idea.”

Rose considered that. “Prolly. You know what? Give me like, a second or two.” She ran into the Doctor’s bedroom, waved hello to him (he had too much soup on his bedroom table. Why?) and said, “Sweetie, you still have your wallet and the sonic in your coat, right?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“How’re you feeling?” she said as she grabbed his coat off the floor and shrugged it over her shoulders. The sleeves were too long, and she rolled them up her arms.

“Honestly, like crap.”

“Feel better.”

“Come say hello.”

“Where’s the Master?” asked Rose, walking over to the Doctor’s bedside to press a kiss on his feverishly hot forehead.

“Not in here. I haven’t seen him for ages,” said the Doctor, his eyelids fluttering. “Tell him to come in here. I really want to see him.”

“Okay. I told him. I’m going now.”

“Okay.”

Rose walked out of the room, took Martha’s hand, and stepped into an alien world with her.

* * *

The Master had been hiding in Rose’s room for far too long, but he was too cowardly to go into the Doctor’s room.

What if he wasn’t okay? What if he was never going to recover from whatever this was? What if? What if?

The Master’s phone went off.

 _My dear master_ , said the Doctor.

The Master smiled. _u still sick and dying??_

_I’m fine_

_Yeah right_

_I’m fine and i miss you sooooo much and ily_

_yeah whatever i love you too, typed the Master. i’ll come see you if you REALLY wanna see me i guess._

_i do_

The Master shook his head. He had to follow through, now, didn’t he. Fine, on my way, he texted.

The Doctor was absolutely pathetic. He was bundled up in a million blankets, his face all pale and his hair flooped over his face. Way too many soup bowls were piled on his bedside table, along with a couple dirtied spoons. He was in the middle of a thick book on quantum mechanics, and the Master watched as his eyes flicked over the same page several times.

“Master!” he exclaimed, his eyes widening, the dark bags etched under them painfully obvious. The Master’s hearts twanged. This was why he didn’t want to come.

“Doctor,” the Master managed, softly.

“Come here.”

The Master made his way, with no small amount of discomfort, to the Doctor’s bedside, and kneeled down so their faces were at the same level. “What — what did you want?” he said. The Doctor looked even sicker up close, the lines of his face exaggerated and haggard, his lips chapped, his breaths shallow.

“Kiss me.”

“You’re not supposed to be telling _me_ what to do, remember?” quipped the Master, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Please, Master.”

The Master leaned forward and kissed him, gently. He tasted fragile. “My dear Doctor,” he said.

“Come be with me,” said the Doctor, and the Master scrambled onto the bed. How could he deny his ailing beloved? He snuggled under the blankets and found the Doctor’s long, spindly limbs, and wrapped himself in them. Cuddling the Doctor in this body was like cuddling a double-hearted spider.

“What can I do for you?”

“Please, just. Please.”

The Master knew what he meant, and they just _were_ , together, because they understood each other, sometimes. “Let me read to you. Let me do something.”

“You can read, I guess,” said the Doctor.

The door opened, and Donna entered, holding another bowl of soup. “Got you some soup, Doctor — aw, you two are adorable.”

The Master stared daggers at her.

“You are. Soup, Master?”

“…Fine.”

Donna set the soup down on the bedside table, along with the other soup bowls, and the Master breathed into the Doctor’s neck.

“Gonna read now,” said the Master when he was pretty sure Donna was gone. The book was in Gallifreyan, and he read it in Gallifreyan, the letters familiar and soft in his mouth. It reminded him of other things exchanged in Gallifreyan — arguments and love confessions and sweet nothings. Better days. Faraway days.

He almost didn’t notice Donna getting a cushion and setting it up on the floor, sitting and listening to him read. He almost didn’t notice Rose and Martha coming in a few minutes later, the former in the Doctor’s coat and the latter in a flouncy purple dress, joining Donna on the floor. He almost didn’t notice, as he read on and on, the Doctor falling asleep, his legs wrapped around the Master.

Almost.

When he reached the end of the section, Rose said, “Maybe something in English next?”

“We have to go make lunch. Wait. Dinner?” said Donna, who had apparently lost track of linear time. “Come on, Master.”

The Master spared a glance at the Doctor’s sleeping form, and felt a flare of attachment. How dare they try to seperate him from his ailing beloved? “I’m staying.”

“Thought you didn’t want to see him?” Rose asked, an eyebrow raised.

“ _I’m staying_ ,” insisted the Master, and wrapped his entire self around the Doctor. “I love him.”

“You’re a big softie, you know that,” said Rose, grinning at them.

“Shut up. You can’t tell him when he wakes up.”

Rose left, saying, “No promises!” as she walked out the door. The Master, though he tried his best, found it hard to be annoyed at her when he was busy basking in the Doctor’s entire being.

“I know you’re fond of her,” said the Master to the Doctor, knowing he couldn’t hear, “but she is rather mean to me sometimes.”  
The Doctor, unsurprisingly, did not answer.

* * *

The Doctor woke up in the night, with only a vague idea of what time it was, unable to properly breathe.

Rose was tucked up under his arm, face to his chest, arms wrapped extraordinarily tightly around his middle. Somebody — the Master, he could feel the individual hearts — had tangled his limbs with the Doctor’s and was murmuring something about his stolen bedsheets (the Doctor had only taken them _once_ , and it was back in the Academy, so it hardly counted). The Doctor managed to crane his neck over the Master to see Donna and Martha, piled atop each other, Donna snoring loudly.

He felt sick. And a bit awful. And very crowded and warm. And his nose was all stuffed up.

But he also felt very, very loved.


End file.
